


the unchosen one

by mayfriend



Category: Young Dracula
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Minor Character Death, Missing Scene, Post-Episode: s02e13 Chosen, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Season/Series 03, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 15:18:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14083791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayfriend/pseuds/mayfriend
Summary: His hair is too long, his lips almost blue, there are dark circles under his eyes and Ingrid thinks that if she wanted, right now, she could break his neck. She could kill him, her own brother, and nobody would be able to stop her.The Count seems to think it too. “Ingrid,” she realises he’s still talking, that he never stopped, that he’s outright begging now, and if she wasn’t so miserable, so confused, so heartbroken, she’d glory in it. “Ingrid, please, he’s only a boy, I’m the one you hate, I’m the one you want to hurt-”“This would hurt you,” Ingrid says slowly, as she smooths her brother’s hair down, and lifts his head into her lap. He doesn’t even stir. “This would hurt you worse than any torture I could inflict on you. This woulddestroyyou.”





	the unchosen one

**Author's Note:**

> I've been doing a rewatch of Young Dracula, and because I _totally_ don't have anything better to do like revision or one of my WIPs, I decided to do this oneshot. I'm not usually one for canon compliant stories, but Ingrid is such a compelling character, and I really wanted to get inside her head. I'm not sure how alive the YD fandom is anymore, considering the show ended four years ago (which makes me feel really fucking old), but if any of you are still there I'd love to hear from you.
> 
> Find me on tumblr at: [mayfriend](http://mayfriend.tumblr.com)

From up high on the Dracula throne, Ingrid’s brother looks very small indeed, his body crumpled on the dusty floor. It reminds her of when they were children; of when Vlad would try and stay up all night like their father, only to fall asleep, exhausted, anywhere and everywhere.

The Count, from inside his cage, follows her gaze, and he grows even more pale. “Don’t,” he says, the desperation in his voice unhidden. It is just the two of them now, and for once, there is no reason to pretend. The only reason either of them tried at all is lying on the cold castle floor, dead to the world. “Ingrid, _don’t._ Your quarrel is with me, not him.”

Silently, she stands, and slowly walks to her baby brother’s side. Her heels click on the stone floor reassuringly, and it’s that sound, not the buzzing of the UV cage, not Will’s last scream that has been echoing round and round in her head, not Vlad’s unconscious whimpers, that gives her the strength to bend down, to take his face in her hands as their father so often did.

His cheeks are soft, and smooth, and he may be fourteen now, he may be the Grand High Vampire now (she isn’t quite sure, but she does know that every other vampire who tried on that crown is dead, and Vlad is still here), but he is very young. She sinks to her knees without a sound. She remembers the day he was born, or perhaps she just dreamed it - their mother had been screaming, and screaming, and her dad had been frantic and attentive and overjoyed when the midwife came out saying _it’s a boy!_ Ingrid has one blurry memory of a red, wriggling thing in black cloth that she wasn’t allowed to hold. (That moment, she knows, was real. She knows it deep inside. It is one of the few things in her life that she has never doubted.)

She is holding him now. His skin is warm, or perhaps it’s just her that is cold now. She can’t remember the last time she touched him like this - it was certainly before her transformation, perhaps even before Stokely. His hair is too long, his lips almost blue, there are dark circles under his eyes and Ingrid thinks that if she wanted, right now, she could break his neck. She could kill him, her own brother, and nobody would be able to stop her.

The Count seems to think it too. “Ingrid,” she realises he’s still talking, that he never stopped, that he’s outright begging now, and if she wasn’t so miserable, so confused, so heartbroken, she’d glory in it. “Ingrid, please _,_ he’s only a boy, I’m the one you hate, I’m the one you want to hurt-”

“This would hurt you,” Ingrid says slowly, as she smooths her brother’s hair down, and lifts his head into her lap. He doesn’t even stir. “This would hurt you worse than any torture I could inflict on you. This would _destroy_ you.”

Her father falls silent. There is no use in denying it. Vlad has always been his favourite, always his boy, always his Achilles heel. The weight of her little brother’s head in her lap is centering, calming, almost. It grounds her.

“Please,” he finally gasps, _“please."_

It is like a symphony.

Ingrid leans down, and her father makes a harsh noise that is more like an animal than a man. She hesitates, grins so that he can see all her teeth, before placing a kiss on Vlad’s forehead, like she used to a thousand years ago, when she was too young to understand just how much he had taken from her just by being born. They used to be friends, she remembers, back in Transylvania. She wonders if it is just another memory she made up. It hardly seems real now, she has gone back in her memory so many times that the scenes of happiness, of love, seem to be crusted over with a golden sheen. Beloved, unreliable, untouchable.

She suddenly wonders if that is what will happen to her memories of Will, and she gasps at the reminder that he is dead. It feels like a physical wound, like a stake in the heart. That he is dead, and it’s her fault. He is dead, and they were meant to have _eternity,_ and they didn’t even get a year.

Ingrid lurches to her feet, the moment broken, and Vlad’s head smacks to the floor too quickly. The Count lets out a cry, and her lip curls back from her teeth in a sneer before she can stop it. Will is dead, and he doesn’t even _care._ His precious son and heir might have a bruise, and the world is ending.

She can feel the tears welling up, and she cannot let herself cry, she _cannot,_ because her father doesn’t get to have that. He doesn’t get to see her grief. He’ll keep, he and Vlad both, she decides. Right now, she needs to go and kill someone. Anyone.

He is screaming after her as she leaves the castle, and she slams the door closed to block out the sound. She needs blood. Blood will help her forget it all.


End file.
